Movie review by Greg Carlson

While it might have sounded marketable on paper – Steve Carell filling the telephonic shoes of Don Adams in a big-budget version of “Get Smart” – the resulting mess is a hodgepodge of mostly unfunny physical comedy supplemented by a smattering of reasonably clever one-liners. Older fans of the original television series that ran from 1965 to 1970 might smile at some of the movie’s half-hearted efforts to revive beloved gags, but younger viewers with no frame of reference will be more likely to unfavorably compare the film to James Bond movies. Strangely, “Get Smart” spends nearly as much time attempting to pull off the breathless action that propels the Bond franchise when it should be a daffy send-up.

Carell is no Don Adams, but given the current roster of deadpan television performers adept at playing nerdy and clueless, he was a good choice for Maxwell Smart. The movie re-imagines Smart as a deskbound “chatter” analyst for CONTROL, even though the man dreams of passing his field agent exam in order to attain some of the glamour that virtually emanates like a cloud from the hyper-masculine Agent 23 (Dwayne Johnson). The Chief (Alan Arkin, doing the best he can with an almost shockingly flavorless screenplay) knows that Smart is better utilized in a cubicle, but relents following an attack by KAOS that jeopardizes CONTROL’s entire operation.

Naturally, Smart is quickly paired with the luscious Agent 99 (Anne Hathaway), but unlike the relationship of the small screen version, she initially finds Smart anything but attractive and brusquely tells him so. Hathaway’s 99 is a brittle scold and absolutely no fun. The resulting screwball-style bickering between the mismatched leads wears thin almost immediately, even though Carell manages embarrassment and humiliation like a champ. The main problem with this Smart, though, is that he is far too competent and self-aware to earn the kind of huge laughs that Peter Sellers managed as Inspector Clouseau.

When “Get Smart” pulls out staple jokes, they bomb hard. The “Would you believe?” routine ends with a lame Chuck Norris punchline that was kind of funny when it bounced around the web a few years ago. “Missed it by that much” pops up a couple of times, and yields zero laughter. As seen in the trailer, Carell’s intense shouting about the best day of his life is pretty good, although the “Cone of Silence” loses its physical Plexiglas charm in a transformation to a run-of-the-mill CG effect. Ditto for the multiple security doors that Smart navigates at CONTROL headquarters.

“Get Smart” is designed as a showcase for Carell’s comic acting, but most of the veterans stuck in supporting roles struggle with wooden dialogue. In addition to Arkin, Terence Stamp’s KAOS leader is a discarded afterthought. A Richard Kiel-esque KAOS henchman gets more screen time and character development. David Koechner is a boorish Larabee, and James Caan is completely miscast as a W-like idiot commander-in-chief. Johnson, like Carell, is willing to do anything for a laugh, but Agent 23 functions almost entirely as a plot device rather than a character. “Get Smart” has not been as poorly reviewed as “The Love Guru” (which opened less successfully on the same day) but it is hardly worth seeing as a replacement.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Significantly better than Ang Lee’s tortured and torturous 2003 “Hulk,” the current re-do fixes many of its predecessor’s problems. In the end, though, the computer-generated green giant lacks the heart and soul that only a human being can provide. Sure, one could argue that the central character, when transformed into a raging, destructive behemoth, is not exactly human. Even so, the presence of a pixel-constructed monster has the drawback of never effectively interfacing with the flesh and blood actors who struggle to touch something that isn’t there or make eye contact with empty space. The newest Hulk looks better than the last one, but not by much.

While Lee’s mournful take on Stan Lee and Jack Kirby’s riff on “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “Frankenstein,” and “King Kong” labored over the origin story, director Louis Letterier’s “The Incredible Hulk” covers that turf during the opening credits, which pay tribute to the popular 1970s television series starring Bill Bixby and Lou Ferrigno (who makes yet another cameo as a security guard and provides the Hulk’s vocals). Other inside references for fan geeks pop up here and there, but Letterier mostly sticks to the basics of the summer superhero playbook, which means little introspection and lots of smashing and bashing.

Edward Norton, who reportedly clashed with powerful, suit-wearing types over the final shape of the movie, is serviceable as Dr. Bruce Banner, but Zak Penn’s script leeches any potential thrill from the Freudian fever dream of unleashing fury and losing control (until the final close-up that alludes to future installments). Banner makes it clear that he sees his condition as a disease-like burden, and emphatically exclaims that he doesn’t want to control it, he wants to get rid of it. That sentiment precludes the opportunity to explore some of the more fascinating dimensions of Banner’s unique ability.

The depiction of Banner’s relationship with Dr. Betty Ross, now played by Liv Tyler, is another place where “The Incredible Hulk” tops the Ang Lee version. While Tyler might not be considered as accomplished as Jennifer Connelly, she is thankfully not called upon to spend the majority of her screen time weeping over the traumatic events that unfold whenever her old flame’s heart rate passes a particular threshold. Tyler’s more imaginative Betty initiates some romance despite the dangers that come with Banner’s quickened pulse. Betty and Bruce spend a chunk of time with one another and the simplicity of the movie’s structure as an extended chase is one of its chief pleasures. Betty’s eagerness to be on the run with Bruce propels the movie until it reaches the inevitable climactic battle.

While “The Incredible Hulk” relies on images of goliath versus military machinery in many of its action sequences, the movie deserves points for several of its cleverly used sets and locations. The parkour-style pursuit through the Brazilian favela where Banner has hidden himself from government pursuers has plenty of energy. Additionally, the first sequence in which Banner goes bonkers in full-on Hulk mode is done mostly in shadow; it generates a fair amount of suspense and postpones some of the disappointment that comes with seeing the emerald colossus in broad daylight.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A largely winning and occasionally beguiling friendship yarn from moviemaking team Hammer & Tongs, “Son of Rambow” applies liberal doses of British eccentricity and charm as it crafts the story of two unlikely pals who forge a creative moviemaking partnership. While it certainly cannot hold a candle to “Rushmore,” “Son of Rambow” respectfully takes up with its nearly adolescent protagonists after the fashion of Wes Anderson’s contemporary classic, allowing the audience to relate to these kids from the inside out. Viewers who give in to the movie’s imaginative tone will be transported to the emotional heart of childhood, a time when fantasy and escapism counteract the indignities of having little control over one’s own daily life.

“Son of Rambow” fires up an opposites attract dynamic in its opening scenes, introducing viewers to Will Proudfoot (Bill Milner), a rail-thin elf protesting the sins of cinema with his religious clan, and Lee Carter (Will Poulter), a scruffy rebel who happens to be pirating the goods with a bulky camcorder in the smoking balcony. The film in question is Ted Kotcheff’s “First Blood,” and it ends up becoming a key ingredient in the oddball collaborative relationship that will form between Will and Lee. Will is forbidden by his family to watch movies, but once he sneaks a peek at Sylvester Stallone’s heroic killing machine, all bets are off as he is seized by production fever.

Both boys are fatherless to some degree, and when he is not illegally taping movies, Lee dreams of winning a BBC-sponsored moviemaking competition. After establishing the unlikely partnership between Will and Lee, the film’s script makes certain that their skills are much stronger when working together. The arrival of an outsider, humorously embodied by a tragically hip French exchange student named Didier (Jules Sitruk), threatens both friendship and production. The movie within the movie provides many opportunities for self-referential comedy (not unlike Max Fischer’s elaborately staged dramas in “Rushmore”), and is one of the chief pleasures of “Son of Rambow.”

Writer-director Garth Jennings, who forms Hammer & Tongs with producer Nick Goldsmith, apparently based some of the crude moviemaking experiments of the main characters on his own exploits. He previously helmed the execrable big budget adaptation of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” and while that film had its supporters, “Son of Rambow” is a much stronger piece of moviemaking in every way, despite the colossally different price tags. The quaint stereotypes might be a bit broad, but the intimacy of the village and school are preferable to the vastness of giant studio sets.

“Son of Rambow” exuberantly identifies with the thrill of childhood imagination, which knows zero limits. Will illustrates the margins of his books and a bathroom stall with detail-rich landscapes reminiscent of Henry Darger’s intricate scrolls. The movie often asks the audience to suspend its disbelief, as the boys arrange shots for their movie that end with gravity-defying catapults and other dangerous stunts. It asks again when the entire school caste system is inverted by filmmaking delirium that turns the nerds into the cool kids. “Son of Rambow” errs too often on the side of sentimentality, but for anyone who has ever been gripped by the desire to make a movie, it reflects familiar emotions.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director (and regular actor) Thomas McCarthy follows his strong debut “The Station Agent” with “The Visitor,” a warm, character-driven showcase for veteran thespian Richard Jenkins. Like McCarthy’s debut feature, “The Visitor” adopts an unhurried pace to spin its tale of a middle-aged academic whose intellectual and spiritual malaise are obliterated by an unexpected encounter. “The Visitor” mirrors “The Station Agent” in several other ways as well, including an emphasis on thoughtful, carefully considered interactions among central characters who are emotionally guarded and more than a little bit leery of opening up to others. While some viewers will find that the movie embraces a piety that creeps close to sanctimoniousness, others will enjoy the director’s well-crafted variation on opposites attracting.

“The Visitor” introduces the viewer to the dour, taciturn Walter Vale (Jenkins), a professor of global economics whose career has stagnated since the death of his pianist wife. Pressured by a colleague to deliver a paper at an NYU conference, Walter returns to a rarely visited apartment he still rents in the city and is startled to discover that a young Syrian musician named Tarek (Haaz Sleiman) and his Senegalese girlfriend Zainab (Danai Gurira) have been swindled into renting it by an opportunistic con artist. As expected, Walter eventually invites the illegal immigrants to stay, and they cautiously renegotiate their living arrangements as they slowly warm up to one another.

Walter’s longtime passion for music migrates from classical to Afrobeat when he hears Tarek’s nimble drumming. With the encouragement of the accomplished and easy-going Tarek, an inspired Walter begins to practice regularly. “The Visitor” might have continued quietly along this path, but McCarthy abruptly changes gears to explore a social-political dimension of post-9/11 immigration policy when Tarek is arrested and held in a sub-contracted detention facility to await deportation. The filmmaker’s indignant attitude moves front and center, but the fortunate dramatic byproduct of this choice is the arrival of Tarek’s mother Mouna (Hiam Abbass), who breathes life into every scene in which she appears.

Jenkins, who has appeared in multiple movies by the Coen Brothers, the Farrelly Brothers, and David O. Russell, has developed a cult following, and “The Visitor” provides him with an opportunity to anchor nearly every scene in the film. No matter what his role, Jenkins has always conveyed a fierce intelligence and a wicked sense of humor, and while opportunities for the latter are largely absent from “The Visitor,” viewers will not be disappointed in his work. McCarthy’s script transforms Walter from a stiff classroom presence into a passionate enthusiast of African rhythms perhaps too smoothly, but Jenkins is never less than compelling, and his cast-mates are uniformly wonderful.

“The Visitor” juggles several thematic concerns, and some are handled with more subtlety than others. A tentative romance that develops between Walter and Mouna might have been a movie all by itself. McCarthy’s high-minded moralizing, which manifests in Walter’s growing outrage and frustration at the government’s treatment of Tarek, hits several sour notes, and is only salvaged by the film’s postscript. With the exception of one brief flicker, Tarek remains cheerful, patient, and optimistic during his confinement – hard to believe considering that he faces being expelled from his adopted country. Even so, “The Visitor” remains thoroughly watchable.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Considering the monumental success of the trio of movies that preceded it, “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” needs little in the way of traditional movie reviewing: isn’t everyone going to see this thing? As one of the enduring adventure heroes of American movie culture, Dr. Henry Walton “Indiana” Jones, Jr. can be tough to beat. Perfectly inhabited by Harrison Ford in what is arguably his signature role, Jones is the Yankee antidote to the eternally smooth and competent James Bond. As constructed by Ford, director Steven Spielberg and creator George Lucas, Jones makes plenty of mistakes, takes a slapstick pratfall like Buster Keaton, and rarely knows what to say to an attractive woman. Luckily, he’s terrific with a bullwhip.

Just shy of two decades since the last appearance of the superhero archeologist, “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” ages the story to 1957, throwing over Nazis for Cold War Soviet Reds. The movie jump-starts with a gleeful, high-speed, Rock and Roll drag race, the first of many signifiers of Lucas’ affinity for 50s pop culture. A squad of commies led by the striking Irina Spalko (Cate Blanchett) infiltrates Nevada’s ultra-secret Area 51 (identified onscreen as Hangar 51) to locate a crated extra-terrestrial that might hold the key to world domination. Can Indiana Jones put a stop to them?

“Crystal Skull” crams in near non-stop action to the detriment of detailed character, and everyone outside of Indy remains largely two-dimensional. Despite her memorable hairstyle and skill with a blade, Blanchett’s Spalko pales in comparison to Rene Belloq, even though both are adept at taking objects away from Jones. John Hurt’s loony, expendable Professor Oxley adds little, and Ray Winstone’s George “Mac” McHale switches allegiances so many times the audience loses track. Whippersnapper Shia LeBeouf, who first appears astride a motorcycle channeling Marlon Brando in “The Wild One,” makes a few too many age jokes at Ford’s expense. LeBeouf’s Mutt Williams certainly would have been a more interesting character had the script arranged for him to experience some sensual tension with KGB goddess Spalko.

The little romance that does creep in sees Indy reunite with “Raiders of the Lost Ark” love interest Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen). Both Ford and Allen look terrific more than a quarter of a century later, but the script insists they start bickering immediately. This all feels a little forced, and a silly scene in which they nearly submerge into a murky, quicksand-like pit should have been trimmed entirely.

While “Crystal Skull” was winding through years of script revisions under a revolving army of writers, hopes were high that if it did get made, Spielberg and Lucas would – presumably for the sake of nostalgia – keep the CG to a minimum. No such luck. From the early appearance of a digital prairie dog to a climactic set piece that will delight some fans as surely as it will rile others, computerized fingerprints stain the movie to the point of overwhelming it. It is hard enough for some of us to accept Indiana Jones in the Atomic Age without the added distraction of busy special effects that cannot match the elegant, gravity-bound thrills that dominate the first, and best, movie in the series.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Gus Van Sant continues his impressive run as one of the foremost cinematic explorers of Portland, Oregon in “Paranoid Park,” a very subjective character study based on a novel by Blake Nelson about a teenage skateboarder involved in the death of a railroad security guard. The movie is a feast for admirers of Van Sant’s signature voice. Beautiful cinematography, originated on 35mm and Super 8mm by Christopher Doyle and Rain Kathy Li, blends seamlessly with the director’s inspired music choices and Leslie Shatz’s elegant sound design to place the viewer inside the point of view of the story’s troubled protagonist.

The movie’s events are recounted elliptically, as scenes and images recycle and repeat in a parallel to the confusion cluttering the mental state of Alex (Gabe Nevins), the quiet skater who finds himself in dire straits following an evening in which a few bad choices lead to a horrific event. Van Sant’s staging of the gruesome accident is a moment of shocking, terrible beauty that works on many levels, including one as a severe memento mori. The filmmaker sympathizes with the naïve Alex without excusing him, taking a position that some viewers will no doubt find disturbing. It would be unfair to say that “Paranoid Park” suggests that young people are without a moral compass; Van Sant is interested in the ways that kids struggle mightily to figure out parts of the adult world.

In terms of style and sensibility, “Paranoid Park” is closer to “Elephant,” “Last Days,” and the classic “Drugstore Cowboy” than it is to “Good Will Hunting” or “Finding Forrester.” Van Sant cultists typically prefer the former set of movies to the latter, and “Paranoid Park” is filled with excellent music cues (including Menomena, Cast King, Elliott Smith’s nearly heartbreaking “Angeles,” which Van Sant used previously in “Good Will Hunting,” and several Nino Rota cuts from “Juliet of the Spirits”) that contribute to uncanny juxtapositions. Alex’s denial and avoidance find visual expression in the shallow focus images, which haunt many scenes.

Van Sant’s eclectic directing career has been engrossing to watch for more than two decades, encompassing studio-financed Hollywood fare as well as intimate, experimental pieces featuring untested amateurs in key onscreen roles. Something like a big deal has been made of the MySpace casting process used to select many of the performers for “Paranoid Park,” but Van Sant has often included non-professionals in his movies to great effect – several of the street kids in “My Own Private Idaho” come to mind.

The use of non-actors as a stylistic choice is nothing new, but Van Sant does it as well as any filmmaker since Robert Bresson. While many viewers might find lead actor Gabe Nevins’ lack of emotional expressiveness and technical polish off-putting, his presence works as an alienation effect that refocuses viewer attention on the manner in which the story is being told as opposed to the mechanics of the plot. Nevins’ Alex doesn’t need to be shown wrestling with his ethical quandary because Van Sant asks the audience to do it.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Cult director Wong Kar-wai disappoints his Yankee constituency with “My Blueberry Nights,” his first English language feature. Molded in the same sumptuous, neon-drenched style of Wong’s finest films, “My Blueberry Nights” relies too heavily on greeting card philosophy and a slightly shaky central performance from recording artist Norah Jones, making her big screen debut. Purportedly, Wong designed the role for Jones alone, acting chops be damned. Certainly the singer is a lovely creature, and it is easy to see why Wong wanted to build a movie around her. Regrettably, little of the chanteuse’s seductive and beautiful phrasing comes across on film; one longs for a musical number so that she might be photographed in her element.

The movie’s first section loiters in the NYC café run by the worldly Jeremy (Jude Law). Jones plays Elizabeth, who has recently broken up with her boyfriend. Nursing her wounds with the help of Jeremy’s late night culinary skills, Elizabeth grows fond of, among other things, her new friend’s delectable desserts. Wong often shows the movie’s titular pie in near pornographic close-up, rivulets of melting ice cream cascading through the violet-hued filling. Before she can rush into something with Jeremy, however, Elizabeth hits the road, and “My Blueberry Nights” relocates from the Big Apple to Memphis and then Nevada.

Wong has never hesitated to stitch together storylines that might exist as their own shorter (and possibly better) movies, and “My Blueberry Nights” switches gears rather abruptly once Elizabeth stops in Tennessee. Serving up hash by day and whiskey by night, Elizabeth meets alcoholic cop Arnie (David Strathairn), a broken man at the end of his rope. Arnie has separated from his sultry, unfaithful wife Sue Lynne (Rachel Weisz), though anyone can see that he aches to turn back the hands of time. As one might expect, both Strathairn and Weisz breathe plenty of life into their characters, despite the melodrama with which they are burdened.

Natalie Portman, showing up late as a tough-talking card sharp who can spin lies as effortlessly as the truth, stands in such contrast to Jones that they almost seem to be in different movies. While Portman plows through the emotionally charged territory that has been carved out for her, Jones merely has to watch and listen. Perhaps Wong and co-scripter Lawrence Block were too cautious with the main character. When Chan Marshall shows up as Jeremy’s old flame, her single scene contains more intrigue than the complete running time afforded Jones, whose Elizabeth is given so little to do.

Thematically, “My Blueberry Nights” revisits some of the director’s familiar lovelorn turf, and Jeremy’s Klyuch eatery will remind Wong admirers of the Midnight Express lunch counter that figured so prominently in the masterful “Chungking Express.” Both restaurants attract broken-hearted souls who turn over keys to the proprietors for safekeeping and/or delivery to ex-lovers. Always a sucker for a clever or cute conceit, Wong trades in a pushpin-pierced envelope for a fishbowl, but the core idea remains the same. Needless to say, Wong’s earlier movies were more exciting, more romantic, and more urgent than “My Blueberry Nights.” If America was a nice place for a visit, here’s hoping that Hong Kong will always be home.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

More than 45 years have passed since Iron Man’s initial appearance in the 39th issue of “Tales of Suspense,” and even though the “Golden Avenger” was never as popular as Spider-Man, he receives lavish treatment in the feature film directed by Jon Favreau. Better than the average comic book to film adaptation, “Iron Man” fulfills all the criteria of the genre. From a slightly retooled origin story to a budding romance to a climactic showdown with an enemy who might once have been a friend, “Iron Man” connects all the dots. After the dust settles, a post-credit roll surprise virtually guarantees sequels and spin-offs.

Casting Robert Downey Jr. as cocky billionaire Tony Stark was easily the smartest move made by the producers of the film. Downey, who plays the title character with the biting wit and playful insouciance that has been the actor’s stock in trade for a pair of decades, takes a page from Johnny Depp’s “Pirates of the Caribbean” playbook; essentially isolating himself from everything happening around him on the screen, he shares a wink and a smile with the audience and can scarcely be bothered to relate to the movie’s other characters. It cannot be an accident that the film’s biggest laughs erupt from Stark’s relationship with his fire extinguisher-wielding workshop robot.

The movie’s supporting cast members aren’t given quite enough to do. Jeff Bridges plays the wonderfully-named villain Obadiah Stane, but his storyline occasionally feels clipped and rushed, especially by the time Iron Man faces off against Stane’s Iron Monger. Gwyneth Paltrow is smart and convincing as secretary Pepper Potts, even though she does not seem to mind Stark’s libidinous carousing with other women. Terrence Howard, as pal James Rhodes, fares the worst. With the exception of a nod to future Iron Man/War Machine possibilities, Rhodes is a second banana all the way, and Howard never finds a way to enhance the underwritten role.

Transposing the Marvel Comics genesis from the Vietnam era to present day Afghanistan, “Iron Man” trades in Communist enemies for a group of Taliban-like guerillas known as the Ten Rings. The most salient elements of Iron Man’s birth, including the symbolic shrapnel lodged near his heart, are presented intact. Other details are modified and streamlined. Favreau allows Stark, held captive by the Ten Rings in a mountainous hideout, plenty of time to forge the prototype Iron Man armor. Oddly, even though the bad guys monitor the American’s every move via closed circuit television, they fail to notice that he is not crafting the missile system they have demanded.

Favreau understands that action movies require breathing room in between the razzle dazzle of the CGI-fueled smash-ups. When Stark perfects his ultimate weapon, viewers – especially ones of the teenage male variety – will thrill to images of Iron Man dispatching insurgents with ridiculous accuracy. An extended dogfight between Iron Man and a pair of F-22s offers the special effects wizards an even better opportunity to demonstrate the latest step in the evolution of movie magic. The animators do a fine job, but “Iron Man” is arguably at its best when Stark isn’t hidden behind the helmet of his nearly invincible steel suit.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” the latest Judd Apatow-produced comedy to prominently feature performers who have appeared on “Freaks and Geeks,” actor Jason Segel does double duty as the movie’s screenwriter. Despite the candid raunchiness, which is now presented as a matter of fact in the Apatow universe, Segel’s mostly routine screenplay lacks the zest displayed by “Superbad,” penned by pal Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg. To be fair, “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” has more in common with the relationship-focused “Knocked Up,” but the movie sometimes comes across as half-baked. It resembles a sitcom episode more than it should.

Segel plays composer Peter Bretter, a decent fellow whose ambitions to complete a puppet rock opera based on “Dracula” have been placed on the back burner since he began collecting steady paychecks writing moody instrumental filler for a “CSI”-esque TV cop show. Better yet, the slacker doofus is blessed with the improbable good fortune to be the real-life boyfriend of the series’ hot star, the Sarah Marshall of the title (played by Kristen Bell). Their too-good-to-be-true romance melts down in the opening sections of the movie, propelling Peter into tearful one-night-stands to salve his shattered heart. For virtually no other reason than convention, Peter ends up in Oahu at the very same resort where Sarah has shacked up with her new beau, a narcissistic British rocker with the wonderful name Aldous Snow (Russell Brand).

With the big pieces of the puzzle in place, “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” introduces the typical complications, and in spite of the painful awkwardness, nobody seriously considers just leaving. Peter is befriended by gorgeous front desk clerk Rachel Jansen (Mila Kunis, easily the best thing about the movie), and even kindergartners would recognize that she, not Sarah, is the one for Peter. Perhaps we are meant to believe that Rachel sympathizes with Peter because she went through a harsh break-up of her own, but she falls for him too quickly. Kunis, however, works wonders with her underwritten role, easily holding down the movie and besting the entire cast. She should have been the movie’s central character.

Several Apatow regulars are launched into orbit around the principal quartet. Paul Rudd plays a forgetful surf instructor. Jonah Hill appears as an eager waiter starstruck by Snow. The usually trusty Bill Hader is out of focus as Peter’s scolding brother. Honeymooner Jack McBrayer struggles to consummate his marriage. In a better movie, the various subplots would connect and contribute to the central storyline, but here they function mostly to pad out the running time. Worse, the talented actors play caricatures rather than characters.

Even when the film settles on the main thread of action, director Nicholas Stoller cannot seem to make it all work. Segel himself might take some of the blame for writing his own screen counterpart as an aimless, people-pleasing softie, but the movie tanks in its treatment of the title character. Presented variously as a calculating cheater and a self-centered starlet, Sarah is not seen as a recognizable person until it is too late. Even then, her own insecurities compromise her integrity and put Peter in jeopardy. By the end, one is not sure whether to feel sorry for Sarah or to hate her for the way she has behaved.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Paid attendance for another Rolling Stones concert film assumes a kinship with the subject matter, and fans new and old alike are offered plenty of sights and sounds to quicken the pulse during the course of Martin Scorsese’s spry crack at one of rock’s unstoppable acts. It may or may not be the same as winning an Oscar, but Scorsese joins an elite rank of filmmakers who have attempted to capture some essence of the Stones. Over the years, Jean-Luc Godard, Hal Ashby, Robert Frank, and Albert & David Maysles directed the band to varying degrees of success, and Scorsese’s encomium serves as an excellent companion piece to several of the earlier works.

Assisted by a jaw-dropping army of some of the finest cinematographers in the game, including Robert Richardson (the credited lead D.P.), Robert Elswit, Ellen Kuras, Andrew Lesnie, John Toll and Emmanuel Lubezki – to name a handful – Scorsese puts the viewer right on the stage of NYC’s Beacon Theatre. The movie’s tongue-in-cheek prologue sees the increasingly wizened Scorsese acting the part of the befuddled maestro, wringing laughs from his inability to track down a set list. After a speakerphone conference with Mick Jagger, a mock-exasperated Scorsese whimpers that it would be nice to be allowed a camera that moves. It’s all something of a put-on, working as a kind of tease before the band takes the stage.

“Shine a Light” is not “The Last Waltz,” but then, not as much is at stake. The Rolling Stones have defied the odds as the years have yielded to the decades, and like Bob Dylan, the subject of Scorsese’s superior “No Direction Home,” the group deserves some credit for its unprecedented longevity. Yes, they are obliged to perform “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” and “Start Me Up,” because the largest numbers of fans love to hear them. The deeper cuts are more satisfying, however, and “Shine a Light” slips in several outstanding arrangements, including a terrific (albeit slightly sanitized) “Some Girls,” a delightful “Far Away Eyes,” and a sweet Keith Richards/Ron Wood duet on the former’s signature “You Got the Silver.”

The unlikely trio of special guests – Jack White, Christina Aguilera, and Buddy Guy – are allotted one number each. In what might be the movie’s highlight, White and Jagger trade lines on a tremendous rendition of “Loving Cup,” often sharing the microphone for the song’s ebullient refrain. Jagger was 37 years old when Aguilera was born, but he still feigns well-practiced libidinousness on a decent run at “Live with Me.” Buddy Guy, age 70 at the time of filming, has a few years of seniority on the Stones, and they treat him with appropriate reverence. His switchblade-sharp work on Muddy Waters’ “Champagne & Reefer” hurts so good, an awestruck Keith gives his guitar to Guy at the song’s conclusion.

Periodically, Scorsese intercuts career-spanning interview footage of the band. It mostly serves to reinforce the inspiring journey of four decades of hard work as the fellows now write their autumnal chapter. The images are also striking for containing evidence of Jagger’s patience and politeness. In clips dating to the 1960s, he courteously answers a battery of inane questions, exposing their ridiculousness with his earnest-sounding responses. Surely, he would rather be on stage, and for the most part, “Shine a Light” is happy to oblige.